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A piece I did on the remarkable art patron Francesca Von Habsburg came out in this weekend's New York Times magazine... 9:52 PM - 28/2/2007 - comments {0} - post commentTanya MurrayTHE BENEFITS OF A PUBLIC SCHOOL EDUCATIONThe big hurdle wasn’t the sex-change op. That was still at least a year away. I realised that this little physical adjustment, so significant to others, would remain between me, my gynaecologist and, probably, no-one else, at all, ever.  Nor did my social transition to Tanya hold any particular fears. I was “part-time full-time” already, dressing as and being Tanya everywhere except work. I’d started thinking of my work persona as “That Other Guy”, his work outfit of sober suit and tie the only real drag I was now wearing.I had arranged work so I had Fridays free. In theory these were writing days. In practice, whatever creativity I had went into trannying around town, getting used to the hostile stares and catcalls. Once, as I stood waiting by the lights to cross Western Road, two builder types stood either side of me. One leaned in close and whispered, in a flat, angry monotone “filthy fucking pervert, paedophile, kiddie-fiddling bum boy, you scum, you sex case…” It had been a bad day for this kind of crap. I’d already been heckled twice by yobs, and now… The stream of abuse continued until I rounded on him, and in my best Scorsese growl delivered Joe Pesci’s line as the psychotic killer Tommy in Goodfellas: “Do I amuse you? Do you find me amusing? I make you laugh, like a fucking clown?” I must have conveyed something of Tommy’s psychosis, because both men backed off, still muttering. Luckily for me. I've got something incredibly important to do next week... The lights changed, and I teetered away in my foot-crippling new heels, pride and facial features mercifully intact under the inch-thick slap I needed to hide my still-heavy beard growth, pondering as I did so: a) how stupid-lucky I’d been not to have been filled in right there, and b) how the subsequent chat with the local cops would have gone when they saw The Other Guy's warrant card in my purse.Still, as the weeks passed, the volume of catcalls diminished, as I gradually learned the tranny survival skills of invisibility, indifference, and slightly better dress sense. Meanwhile, everyone I needed to tell was told. With varying results. Some dropped me immediately. Gay men, in particular, seemed to view me as some kind of quisling. It was seriously suggested to me, despite the quarter century I had spent with my boyfriend, that I was only doing this because “you can’t face up to admitting you’re a gay man.” Hmm. Now let me think about this: cope with the social stigma of being assumed to have excellent interior design skills? Or chop my balls off and turn myself into a permanent circus freak, in the opinion of a goodly portion of the world? Tough call. Most people stuck around after I dropped the bomb, if only out of curiosity. I had a sense that for some, I now ticked a useful box, next to “exotic ethnic minority friend”, easily out-ranking my previous “gay shopping friend” tag. A few, fortunately - those I still call friend - were supportive. Once, that is, they got over what another trans friend called the “48 hour shock” (as in: “Don’t trust what anyone tells you they think about, it until at least 48 hours has passed”.) Which just left work. Now, the Metropolitan Police isn’t is the kind of place where you pitch up at the office one day declaring an intention to change sex, then say “Just kidding.” Of all the steps in my transition, this was the only one that was truly, socially, irrevocable. I need a job, and the reality is, most trans people don’t have one. So once I came out to The Job, I was committed to stay there. Changing my mind later would simply not be an option. I hatched a cunning plan. I had a big case coming up, a nasty baby-battering. Young, useless mum and dad in the dock, me centre stage as officer in the case. It would be That Other Guy’s swansong, a last outing for the suit and tie, then, a week’s leave, and bang, back at work as the new me, Tanya of the Tranny Squad. No problem. Well, they say no plan survives contact with the enemy… Things went well initially. I met the prosecutor, a sneaky QC with a plan of his own to get round the biggest risk in the case; because neither mum or dad were talking, both could walk since exactly who fractured the skull and tiny limbs of their three month old son couldn’t be proved… The Other Guy had his day in the box, giving the jury just the facts, ma’am, looking sharp in my last male suit, wearing the glasses I never wear, because juries think people wearing glasses are intelligent… We hit half time, on time. Now it was the defence’s turn. Things began to drag. The trial was set down for a week. By start of play on Thursday it was looking dicey for a Friday finish. I buttonholed my brief. “Do you reckon we’ll be done tomorrow? I’ve got something incredibly important to do next week.” He shrugged. “Really officer, I have no idea.” The jury went out Friday afternoon. And stayed out. No verdict. Come Monday, I had a decision to make. I chose a new suit. This one was lilac. The jacket had breast darts to accommodate my silicon breast forms. I spent quite a bit of time on my make up and wig. The Other Guy’s role in the proceeding was over, but I wanted to look my best for my public debut. Every morning during the trial I had sat in the same seat, behind my brief's chair, ready to slip him a note, exhibit, whatever. I took up my usual position. He breezed in, looking straight through me to the female usher who I had spent hours chatting to during recesses. “Have you seen the officer in the case?” he asked her. Both looked blankly around the half empty court. Shyly, I raised my hand. “I told you I had something important to do this week.” I ventured, in my not-at-all convincing female voice. The barrister contemplated me for a long moment. And then, I truly appreciated the benefits of a public-school education. His Eton-educated tone never wavered. “Oh… Good morning, officer.” Just that. Then he turned to the pile of papers in front of him. We got our verdict an hour later: guilty. The barrister shook hands with me briskly. “Thank you officer.” He strode off without another word. Tanya Murray wrote the stories Spinning the Drum and Dancing for Un-Made-Up. The photo is by flickr's Jo Angel, from a collection called On Being A Tranny. 8:59 AM - 26/2/2007 - comments {3} - post comment41 Places Today is the official launch of The Brighton Festival, and therefore the launch of a special project I've been working on for the last few months.As anyone who comes here has probably realised, my obsession is with true stories - narrative non-fiction. The way in which we tell stories about ourselves and the people around us is a massive source of fascination to me. I devised 41 Places as a way of telling stories about people and places in Brighton. It's a massive exhibition that takes place throughout the centre of the city from 5-27 May. Take a look at the website. I'll be putting more information up soonish... Over the last few weeks I've been finding true stories, calling people up, accosting them on the street, in taxi queues and on the seafront, amassing a body of short tales. Working with an incredible team - typographer Richard Wölfstrome and 3D environmental designers Standard8 - we're turning these stories into a selection of artworks. I don't want to give too much away at this stage, but the words will being displayed in an inventive number of ways thorughout the city centre, on pavements, ceilings, walls, in windows and on signs, some hidden, some glaringly obvious. It's like a giant treasure hunt of real narratives. We're putting the whole together in the coming weeks; it's a mammoth amount of work, but great fun to do. It couldn't be done without the very generous support of Brighton Festival and Arts Council South East. The exhibition is being sponsored by EDF Energy. I'll keep you posted. The photograph is by my friend Luca Sage; it shows Nas and Bruce who feature in one of the 41 Places. 4:37 PM - 21/2/2007 - comments {0} - post commentFound Writing No. 3 ... An antidote to L'Oreal ads.
Normal business now resumed after a short break at my hippie hideaway last week. 11:26 PM - 14/2/2007 - comments {0} - post commentFe SelwoodMICKEY & TREACLE Smelling of the war, he sat at the formica table in the 1930s kitchen. There was a bottle of dandelion and burdock, a loaf of cheap white bread and always margarine, never butter. With pieces of his precious engine laid out in an oily order he grumbled his way through a Benson and Hedges and answered my ream of questions with black humour. “What are those, Grampy?” “Engine parts,” he said, spoiling a gingham tea towel with gloop. “Well, what are they doing in the kitchen then?” “It upsets your Nanna so I thought we'd give them a clean.” There was a little smile that creased his coal tar soap face. “…But… If Nana doesn't like it why are they here?” “Mickey told me to.” The smile again. “Who's Mickey?” “He's sat just there.” He gestured with his cigarette towards the empty chair next to me. “Can't you see him?” “Of course I can see him,” I said with confidence. “He's very ugly.” ‘Oh you can?… What was that Mick?.” He listened to the empty chair intently for some moments, nodded then turned to me and said, “...And Mickey says you're scruffy.” He returned to the car parts, same subtle smile. “Oh.” I said, hurt by Mickey who was now just as visible to me as my Grandfather was. “Is there anything new for me to look at in the larder?” I enquired keenly. “Why don't you go and see.” The larder to me was an exciting cave of a place, smelling of damp and bread. I tucked myself inside and closed the door quietly, taking my seat on the bread bin. There was the treacle, which I pushed my little fingers into merrily. “...Keep those fingers out of the treacle, Scruffy,” Grampy called out. “Ok,” I said in between mouthfuls. “But can I have a damson jam sandwich instead?” Written by Fe Selwood. The photo is by Guillaume Hamel. 11:07 PM - 12/2/2007 - comments {0} - post comment When my father was a boy, his mother hung him. I imagine my father, Totoy, at ten. He hasn’t graduated yet to long pants and shoes; his shorts and T-shirt are faded and soft from the wear of three older brothers... The new issue of Dinty W. Moore's long-running magazine of short non-fiction Brevity is online, featuring this stomach-lurching story by Grace Talusan. Read the rest of "My Father's Noose" here. 10:52 PM - 11/2/2007 - comments {5} - post commentDaniel CourtIRON PYRITE I'm here with The Skull and Lewis. We’ve all been friends for a while. We’re all here for a reason. Skull and I couldn’t be here without Lewis and Lewis knows how to keep it in check. Lewis isn’t the important one though.So we’ve been sat here for about six hours and I decide to broach the subject. I know that it’s not going to be easy and I have to approach this all in the right context or, not only will I appear to be insane, but no one will understand me and everything will go awry. At this point I’m not bothered about everyone else; this is between The Skull and me. It’s getting hotter in the room. I wonder if everyone is feeling hot or if it’s just me. I try not to think about it all. I try not to think about everything that’s riding on his answer and attempt to appear relaxed. I have another drink. I have perfected the art of taking large gulps but appearing to only have a sip. I wonder where I acquired this talent and if it’s actually useful. There’s a break in the conversation about football scores. Lewis gets up. Toilet I think. Now’s the time. I sit down next to Skull and cross the Rubicon. “Where’s the gold Skull?” His initial look of bewilderment gives way to amusement as matches my gaze and smiles. “What gold Dan?” I laugh. It comes out all wrong and it sounds wistful and uncharacteristic. Skull laughs too, but he doesn’t take his eyes off me. Room temperature has gone up about three degrees and we’ve drawn a bit of attention. I roll up my sleeves. It’s all going to go off. I can feel it. Rage is bubbling. I can’t back down, that’s not how it works. He needs to acknowledge my stance on the issue. Six eternities later he takes a swig from his can. “I don’t have the gold. I don’t even know what you’re talking about.” It’s easy to be smug when you’re in the driving seat. I take it easy because people have noticed a tension between us. I also laugh. It’s genuine this time because I think that in about ten minutes one of us is going to trigger a fight which will end years of friendship and camaraderie. I laugh at the things people will do for money. “The gold from the job Skull, the gold from the fucking job.” I emphasise ...I'm expecting punches any second... “I know what you’re talking about. You’re talking about the gold.”“Yes, I need my share. I know you can’t get it to me right now but I need it soon.” I plead. “Mate, it’s offshore…” It’s not offshore. It’s gone. That’s what he means. I am beginning to lose it. I am breathing quicker than usual. I don’t think he’s realised that the adrenaline is pumping through my system and I’m ready for combat. I watch him move on his seat in slow motion. He’s not taken an aggressive stance but he’s ready for me. Do I need to take this further? It’s mine too, we both worked for it, equal share right? I weigh up my opponent; Cumbrian, of farming stock. He’s sporting tattoos of dragons and scorpions underneath his top. I’m sporting 6”6’ of pure muscle. Can it be done? I don’t know. Let’s do it. Screaming and hysterical I leap up and start hurling abuse at Skull through rasped teeth. Years of education are lost. I am without class, dignity and comprehension. Primary colours, basic shapes, primal instinct. Vision blurs as I try to keep a basic handle on my existence. Everyone is looking and the jig is up. I haven’t hit Skull yet because we’re friends aren’t we? I just don’t want to be betrayed. It’s happened before. My eyes well up with tears. I know I’ve missed my chance and I’m expecting punches any second. “What are you playin’ at bruv?” A thick southern accent cuts in. I can’t see anything but I know its Lewis. I’m wiping my eyes as he turns to Skull. “What’s got D all worked up?” “The gold, mate” says the Cumbrian. “Oh right, shit, the gold…” The two of them exchange glances, shake their heads and stare at me. I weigh up how much damage I can inflict on the traitors before they or someone else takes me down. I fancy my chances. They’ll all pay. Lewis walks up to me slowly. There is something reassuring in his gait. I can trust him to at least tell me straight. I slow my breath and wait for the twist. “Big D…” he starts. “I think we should all do a little less Ketamine.” Instinctively I cover my mouth with my hand as to stem the pareidolia. Regret and humility flow through my system with an undertone of questioning. I take off my glasses, wipe my eyes and grin. Other people in the room are now laughing and giggling a bit. “I’m getting another Strongbow,” I mutter. Skull just winks at me. Daniel Court is a student at the Unversity of Central Lancashire. Photographer Danny Williams lives in Ireland. Hands up who knew what pareidolia meant... 10:10 PM - 8/2/2007 - comments {0} - post commentFound Writing No. 2
9:45 PM - 7/2/2007 - comments {3} - post commentJonathan ChamberlainHOW THINGS WERE BEFORE YOU ARRIVED At that time we lived in a small flat at the top of a hill on a small island, an hour by ferry from the main island of Hong Kong. It is a very small island. With recent reclamations it is almost exactly one square mile. Two largish headlands of rotten granite joined by a wasp waist of a sand bar. Geographers call this type of island a tombolo. It is perhaps three hundred paces across at the thinnest point. The shape of it is like a dog, if you look at it in a certain way, or maybe a knotted root of ginger. The sandbar has been concreted over and built upon. This is the village where some thirty thousand people live. On the south side of the sandbar, six hundred or so trawlers, fishing junks, shrimpers, sampans, water boats, grain junks, short-haul cargo boats and fibre-glass skips occupy the waters of the harbour area. On the north side is the island's main beach which looks on to the south side of Hong Kong island - a scatter of lights on a clear night - and beyond it the furnace of the blazing city, alive with evening energies. Sometimes, late in the evening we watched it with a kind of awe. But mostly we faced the other way, looking across the inky harbour to the silent dark shapes of the mountains on the neighbouring island of Lantau, slopes that faded away in shades of grey. The flat, one of four in the block, stood just below the peak of one of the two hills of the island, overlooking some vegetable plots. One day, instead of going down to the market, I decided to buy directly from the farmer. "How much do you want?" he asked. We stood facing each other surrounded by the vegetables in the field grappling with this question of quantity. ...if we had known then... "A catty," I suggested tentatively, aware of the stupidity of talking weight when we had nothing to weigh them in. We laughed."OK, two dollars worth." My Cantonese was up to that. The farmer nodded and started laying the white cabbage along his arm. From wrist to elbow one dollar, from elbow to shoulder two dollars. For two dollars I got an arm's length of Chinese greens. Here, above the village, we shared the nights with the croakings of a hundred frogs, rich bellowings like cows' mooings. I loved these frog sounds, each burping like bubbles bursting, that greeted us as we came home in the evening. At night it was sometimes too tiresome to go out into town. We stayed where we were and closed out the world. Our closest friends were insects and trees. Spiders weaved their cobwebs unmolested, skinks darted out from the wardrobe. Blue tailed skinks – lizards that looked as if they had been designed by Bugatti, skittered around the room on electric nerves. Sometimes a tail was missing leaving a glistening red lump. Within a week the tail had grown back. Cicadas grated their legs together in sudden frenzies of sound. In the drains and cracks around the house lived armoured centipedes up to ten inches long. In the grass there were snakes. We were not alone in our solitude. They were happy times, times of deep contentment and a strange, disquieting need to escape. I recognise this only now, looking back, there were deep currents of energy that felt constrained. And as I look back at this companionable, contented time, I guess Bern too was escaping along her own tracks of wood and stone. Dear Stevie, I loved your mother and she loved me. These are truths that I know absolutely. But perhaps there was - in me, in her - at the centre, a hard core that could not be dissolved in the acid of love. And, anyway, love isn't all there is to it. There's more. And did we leak away from each other slowly, a slow steady drip-drip-drip of soul and spirit and heart and being? So very slowly we didn't notice it? So slowly that even if we had seen it we wouldn't have thought it mattered? Is that what happened? It's hard to think of it. But then of course the drip, if there was a drip, was small and the reservoir of feeling was deep. And life, in any case, means friction and people are different, grow differently, react differently. These are simple everyday truths. And then, Stevie, there was you. A seed planted in the very heart-soil of our lives. I knew it before she did. I knew the firming of the breast meant more than temporary hormonal dysfunction. This time was different. The days passed and the subtle ballooning of her breasts continued. I grew more certain. But she was confused. There had been a slight flow of blood at the proper time and again a few weeks later and again and again, each time after we had made love. When it was confirmed she said we'd have to stop for a couple of months. It could be dangerous. How did I feel about it? There I was, excluded from the body I loved for the sake of the usurper. I thought of the burden, the irritations, the complications of it all. But that mood didn't last long. I became affectionate of the little abstraction that daily grew bigger and bigger. You. I felt this nameless fruit of love ripen under the palm of my hand; saw it swell. Her nipples stuck out straight as if at attention. We lay in bed holding hands and contemplating this mysterious child that had chosen to be ours - or had it been chosen for us by some unseen fate? Was it that eons of karma were meeting at this intersection of fate and time? Magical and mysterious being. What were we going to do with you? What were you going to do to us? We understood a truth. The future had arrived. And what we saw as the future would always be your continuous present. And looking back, Stevie, as I sometimes do, I feel a kind of horror rise up in me. If we had known then. If we had suspected. If we had had tests, then we would never have known you. That thought scares me to the depth of my soul. If I had never known you, why then, then, I would never have become the me I am today. This another piece of Jonathan Chamberlain's memoir of his daughter, Wordjazz For Stevie. You can read more from Jonathan here. The photo is by Falk who blogs here. 9:40 PM - 5/2/2007 - comments {0} - post commentAn interview I did last year with Brandon Flowers of The Killers is on the cover of this month's Q. It's about the album Sam's Town, his retreat from rebellion back into Mormonism , and about growing up in Vegas. He was entertaining, very warm, very polite, and... often quite strange. Coming of age in conservative America can be such a surreal experience: 9:24 PM - 4/2/2007 - comments {0} - post commentNabilWEDNESDAY JANUARY 31st.Yesterday was round two of the mortar attacks on my neighbourhood. Over 20 mortar missiles fell on the neighbourhood and caused 30 deaths and injuries. Here is my side of the story: I was at my grandmah's house which happens to be next door to my house. Me and my cousin were in the back garden playing soccer and mocking each other. Suddenly we heard the very loud noise of mortar missile passing over us. I said, "Did you hear it?" and as he said, "Yes", there was a huge explosion . We couldn't tell where exactly it had fallen as it was too close. We ran inside my grandmah's house and waited there for several minutes. Shortly after that, we heard screaming, shouting and people running in the street, we ran out to see what happened.  At first, I couldn't see through the dust and ashes in the air, then my vision cleared and I saw smoke clouds coming out of the roof of my neighbour’s house - which is in front of my home. Instinctively everyone ran inside of my neighbour's house to check for survivors. There were women all over the place shouting and screaming, "Help him, help him, he is at the roof." Meanwhile mortar missiles were falling here and there very close to us. Several of us ran to the roof of the house, and there was my neighbour lying on the floor with his legs cut by the explosion. He was bleeding severely; there was blood all over him. I was completely shocked, scared and terrified, I stood there and didn't know what to do. A man stood next to me shouted to me, "Come on! Grab him. Let’s take him to the hospital." I ran towards him and we picked my neighbour up and went down to the street carrying my neighbour where a kind man stopped his car and took us with him to the hospital.Although I tied his cut off legs and squeezed on the wound trying to stop the bleeding, by the time we arrived to the hospital, he was already gone. In the hospital, because he was already dead, all they did was take him to the mortuary refrigerator. Shortly after his son arrived at the hospital, shouting and crying, "Where is he? I wanna see him." We went to the mortuary. Bodies were lying on the floor, as there were too many bodies and there wasn’t enough room in the fridge. The sight of them lying on the floor was very disgusting and sad; most were victims of the mortar attacks. ...God knows what more can happen... Anyway, my neighbour’s relatives came to the hospital and brought a coffin for him. We took the body and headed back to my neighbour’s house, so that his wife and kids could see him for the last time before they bury him. I told them not to take him to his parents’, because it would be very painful for his kids to see their father dead and his legs cut off. But his son insisted on taking him back home. We took him back to his house, and there was his wife and kids waiting for him and by that time they didn't know whether their father was dead or not. By the time they saw the coffin they started screaming, shouting and crying. I was very touched seeing the tears of his little kids crying with so much pain.Shortly after that, his son said, "Let’s take him to the cemetery, I want him to be buried before it gets dark.” So they took him to the cemetery right away. They considered him as a martyr. (In Islam the martyr should be buried right away, with the bloody clothes he was wearing when he died.) Anyway, we went to the cemetery, and the handlers started to bury him. I was standing with my cousin, near them watching them. Before they had closed his grave, another round of mortar attacks took place very, very close to the cemetery. People started to run, leaving his grave still uncovered. My cousin and I finished burying him, ran to the car and headed back home. When me and my cousin went back, my neighbours told us that another mortar missile fell on my grandmah's house but it didn't explode. Thank God it didn't explode because my grandmah was alone in the house. That’s what happened yesterday. God knows what more can happen. Reproduced with kind permission of Nabil, who has been blogging from Baghdad for over three years. His blog had been silent since December until this new entry. Understandably, he's been trying to get out of the county for some time now. There is a button on his site asking for donations for his "escape fund". Photo by Gerard Yates. 8:58 AM - 2/2/2007 - comments {0} - post commentIf Carver had been a photographer. Found writing No. 1What I like is found stories. Usually, once you've found them you have to find a way to tell them. Just sometimes those stories arrive already fully built with all the nuts already tightened and you don't have to touch anything at all. 12:36 PM - 1/2/2007 - comments {3} - post commentIt's been an absurdly busy January so far. And an absurd one too. I spent a week in Rio De Janeiro on an assignment for the NY Times magazine. The best moment was sitting round an oval table with the newly elected governor of Rio De Janeiro and several of his ministers. I ate lunch in a hastily ironed shirt, sitting at a place card which said Excelentissimo Senhor William Shaw Jornalista do New York Times. I can safely say I was the only person round the table gauche enough to slip their place card into the back-pocket of their trousers after the meal. Even the governor Sergio Cabral Filho whose first offical state lunch this was didn't keep his. 6:49 PM - 30/1/2007 - comments {0} - post commentTanya MurraySPINNING THE DRUM It’s nearly three pm, and we’re preparing to smash Harold's door to matchwood.Late for a spin, but based on a week of obs, this was his busiest time. We hit the estate at warp speed, bailing from the carrier before the big armoured van stopped rolling, plunging into the stairwell, trying to make the eight flights to his floor before too many eyes made us. One good thing about the Peckham estates. They were target-rich environments. The spotters had to hang fire long enough to work out exactly where we were headed; otherwise a lot of good gear got flushed unnecessarily. That gave us an edge. About thirty seconds of edge. ...Droptheknife! Droptheknife!... The Door Entry Team a.k.a. the Ghostbusters, Terry and Mac, went first, goggled and gloved. Big beefy civvies, their day jobs were in the motor pool but they volunteered for this, just for the thrill of smashing other peoples’ things.Mac had the hydraulic ram, but Terry sized the door up, shook his head. A quick glance at the rest of us, crouched beneath the kitchen window, and he swung a short length of orange-painted steel pipe by its twin handles at a spot just to the right of the Yale. The Enforcer went in at the first hit, the door lock popping off intact, the frame barely splintered. This was good. It meant no-one would have to hang around afterwards for the locksmith. Even as the door begun its bounce back off the hall wall, Terry and Mac cleared, their day’s work done, and we piled in, turtle-clumsy in our heavy ballistic vests. I remembered seeing a whole TSG Serial do this once, eight big lads in full riot gear, charging one after another into what turned out to be a cleaners’ cupboard, the poor sod at the front despairing as another sixteen stone of rugby player smeared him a bit more into the back wall. Very Keystone Cops. Luckily, our own “rapid entry” was going to plan, so far. “Police! Stand still! Get down! Don’t move!” We all barked overlapping, contradictory orders in our butchest voices. It didn’t really matter what was said. The intention was to create as much confusion as possible, to fuse a target’s synapses until we were all over them like a cheap suit. Oh, and to emphasise we were cops, in case he didn’t take the hint of the big “Police” logos on the vests, and decided to test out their alleged bullet-stopping properties for real. As the vests were maintained by police, a breed capable of breaking any known device, this was something I fervently did not wish to occur. Especially, as by some fluke of re-ordering on the stairwell, I now found myself leading the charge. I saw a blur of unoccupied kitchen, then, freeze-framed, Harold himself, ten feet ahead, through his open living room door. A tall, good looking black guy in his late twenties. He worked out, you could tell. He was caught in the act of rising from his armchair, a half-peeled apple in one hand, a small pen knife in the other, his mouth an ‘o’ of surprise. “Dropthefuckingknife,dropitdropit!” I gabbled, and launched myself at him. I’m a crap fighter, but I was four stone overweight then, and hyped on adrenaline. So a heavy, shouty armoured blue ball of panic took him somewhere in the middle, and we both went clean over the back of the armchair, into a cheap plastic music centre on a coffee table behind. The hifi and the coffee table exploded in fragments as I slammed one rigid Quik-Cuff on to his unresisting knife hand. I started working the black plastic grip of the cuff, the sharp-edged steel bracelet grating painfully back and forth across his wrist. “Droptheknife, droptheknife…!” “Ow! Okay Man, I did already!” He had. I felt another pair of eyes on me. Sitting on a sofa opposite, unmoving, was an elderly, white haired black male. “It’s my dad, man. He’s got a heart condition. Just calm down, yeah?” Things did calm down. I got the second cuff on. Harold didn’t protest. We served him with his copy of the warrant, picked up his armchair, sat him back on it, began the tedious business of spinning the drum: searching every room one square foot at a time. His dad’s accusing eyes tracked us silently. Some time later, I noticed the old man fiddling with a glass demijohn of dark red liquid. I took it from him. Plants waved lazily in the bottle. “What’s this?” A couple of other cops on the search team looked over. “It’s just me rum,” the old man said in a strong Caribbean accent. I pulled out the bung from the bottle and sniffed. The strong burnt toffee smell of 100 proof Jamaican booze made my eyes water. “What about the plants?” The bottle was stuffed with them. “Them’s steepin’,” he said. “Medicinal.” I shrugged, tapped the bung back and handed the bottle to the old man. “Okay.” The search continued. Intel, lapsing into the sub-Scorsese street slang they affected for briefings, had promised us ‘…Rocks… H… maybe as much as a key.” Well, at least this time we got something. Wrapped around with cabbage leaves and cling film in the salad box of the fridge; maybe a quarter kilo block of compressed herbal. A result of sorts. Nothing to write home about. I nicked Harold. “Come on,” I said. “You’re coming with us.” The old man, unblinking, watched us go. -o0o- Back in the van, someone was sorting through the big polybag of exhibits we’d seized. “Hang on… Where’s the rest of the dope?” “What dope?” I said. The cop with the exhibit bag looked at me oddly. “That bottle I saw you with, stuffed full of rum and cannabis.” I pictured the bottle. The leaves. The unmistakable, distinctive five-pointed leaves, swaying gently in the rum. “Shit!” I looked at Harold. He grinned. Tanya Murray wrote the story Dancing for Un-Made-Up. The photo is by Skip The Budgie who has blogged about Police drug raids from another perspective entirely. 4:53 PM - 24/1/2007 - comments {0} - post commentSusannah HarrisonSNOOPERS PARADISE My father’s pencilled annotation on my map, “interesting little shops” marks Brighton’s North Laine. Here amongst the cafes, boutiques and expensive gift shops lies Snoopers Paradise. The shop is a sprawling sequence of rooms containing bric-a-brac and antiques no longer required by the original owners. On entering I pass through a turnstile and under a sign that reads, “we buy for cash, ask for John.” Inside are a series of shelves and numbered display cabinets containing china, glass and cheap costume jewellery. There are baskets of old photographs, torn or shaken from their albums. Some of the pictures have been carefully labelled on the back in blue ink. Here I find the monochrome memories of someone’s beach holiday to the Isle of Wight in 1909, now on sale for 30p each. On the back of a large mounted group photograph and written in neat copperplate handwriting are the words, “with love and best wishes from Frank and Lilian.” There are souvenirs commemorating the wedding of Prince Charles and Lady Diana Spencer, an empty photograph album and a £2 coin. ...dead people's clothes... There are musical instruments including several guitars, violins, a trumpet and an upright piano. They are out of tune and unpractised, their previous owners arthritic. There are unwanted toys, threadbare teddy bears, Rubik’s cubes and board games. There are old-fashioned telephones, the ones with the dials that were around 30 years ago. My parents used to have a red one. My brother and I took it apart one day to see how it worked.On the walls are pictures of horses and hunt scenes; there are prints and paintings and mirrors. There are shelves of paperweights, Toby jugs, binoculars and bottle gardens. For £75 I can buy a stuffed stork in a glass case, complete with snake in its mouth. An assortment of plates, bowls and cups are stacked on a low table in one corner. The turquoise and white patterned crockery is identical to my parents’ dinner service. It had been their wedding present. This set is incomplete. Where is the rest of it, broken or sold? Were the owners another bride and groom from 1973? Are they dead or divorced? Perhaps they just went off the pattern. There is a cupboard full of little suitcases, the kind elderly people have when they go into hospital. There are second-hand clothes and a hat stand full of old fashioned hats. Who wore them? Are they dead people’s clothes? A blond girl of about eight years old, dressed in a grey jumper and three-quarter length trousers, is leading a small brown pug around the shop. It is actually the dog who appears to be more in control and is dragging her around. It keeps on yapping and biting its lead. The lady at the till is thirty-something. She is wearing a black jumper and has dark rimmed glasses. She is smoking a thin cigar as she wraps a vase in pages from the Daily Mail. I glance at the top sheet that shows a picture of Charles and Camilla. The headline asks the question, “Can anything else go wrong?” This is Susannah Harrison's third piece for Un-Made-Up. Photo by Chloe Faulkner. Kind thanks. 9:05 PM - 21/1/2007 - comments {1} - post comment
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